I dreamed I was lying on my back beside my friend. We were outside on a dolly moving through the lower East Side of Manhattan. I was admiring the architecture of the tenements and the sliver of sky above. This is where all my ancestors lived! I said.

Perhaps all the things that annoy me should be rolled into one: leaf-blowers that continually emit dryer sheet smell and that double as cell phones, or dirtbikes that also work as weedwackers. Is there an app for that?

I dreamed of a pink patent leather suitcase that I opened. Inside there was a pink hand-held electric beater. There were pink ribbons and bows dangling from it and the base of it was covered in a thick layer of old pink frosting. I was in a play and this was my prop. I was in the wings of the theater wiping off the mixer before going on stage. I went to throw out my paper towel full of frosting and the costume designer was sitting inside the giant gray trash barrel full of garbage, having a conversation. I didn't want to dump the frosting on her.

I dreamed I was in my parents former 18c country house and all the woodwork had been stripped from the walls leaving studs and pink insulation. I wondered why they had been so thorough when they moved out.

I waved at the man driving the gigantic dump truck, the public works man who I see all the time on my walks with Lily. If I were ever to get a regular job it would be as a public works person. I'd wear a glow-yellow sweatshirt and join in with the guys and dig ditches. I'd fill potholes with hot asphalt that looks like crumbled Oreo cookies. In winter I'd drive the Zamboni around the ice rink melting the scratches into a sleek smooth surface. I'd plow the streets during snowstorms and drink hot coffee in the heated man-hut on my break. In summer I'd drive the city street sweeper through Woonsocket's downtown. I'd be one of the city's devoted housekeepers.

Monday, November 21, 2011

I don’t think anyone can really teach writing. What I know I can do is create a safe place for writers to write. And if you feel safe, you can do anything. You can take the risk of saying this is who I am, this is what terrifies me, this is what moves me, this is what makes me laugh. When you take that risk, you dig deep. You will access your innocence, your truth and your vulnerability and then you cannot miss.

You mine for gold and you find gold. . . honoring your own voice, writing in your own rhythms, using your own language and writing your own stories. Here is where we stop the inner critic in his tracks.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Whenever I put anything on paper, whether it’s a story, a poem, a drawing, or even a photograph, I create something else. Even if I’m just drawing or describing the view from my window, what appears on paper is oddly unlike what is there. After a while, it seems as if the page itself, or what is on the page, takes on another reality. And that is the reality I work with.-Nin Andrews, Full Stop interview

For me writing is like going through the wardrobe into Narnia. I like landing in the snow and following Mr. Tumnus. Narnia, or writing, has its own logic, its own madness and methods, much as dreams do. But when I’m finished and am left with a poem, I have to edit the thing. I become very critical and disappointed then.-Nin Andrews, Full Stop interview

I rewrite every piece of fiction I ever write until it shrinks into the size of a poem. I’m not sure why or how this happens. I wish I could expand my work rather than shrink it. They’re kind of like wool sweaters that keep going through the washer and dryer on high heat.-Nin Andrews, Full Stop interview

Friday, November 18, 2011

Last night I dreamed I was at the ocean spotting shark fins poking up out of the sea. I was in my blue tank bathing suit lounging on the shoreline and I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up my black lace up school-shoes were covered in fresh white snow and they were sitting nearby railroad tracks.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

I think if you do what you think you can not do, wish not to do, absolutely would never do—in writing, not in life—you find that there is energy there. What you have not spoken about, what you have hidden from yourself, is revealing. What you have blabbed about non-stop is boring. It’s dull. It has no surprise left in it. No shimmer. No magic.

Wednesday, November 09, 2011

I couldn't run a tight schedule, and if you're any good at teaching, you get sucked dry because you like your students and you're trying to help them, but you don't have any time left to write yourself. -Jim Harrison

Poetry just like painting is something that you have to give your entire life to – and that includes all your life.-Jim Harrison

Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness. And they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy . . . or they become legend. -Jim Harrison

The only advice I can give to aspiring writers is don't do it unless you're willing to give your whole life to it. Red wine and garlic also helps. -Jim Harrison